


Gasoline

by sanguine_throne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Gen, M/M, Minor Character Death, but i like it, fire tw, firefighter!cas, low self esteem!Dean, not sure where this is going
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-04 19:40:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1790845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguine_throne/pseuds/sanguine_throne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a fire takes one more beloved from Dean's life, he can't find the time to catch his breath. That might have something to do with the blue-eyed fireman that keeps popping up around town and in Dean's thoughts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red and Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey all! This is my first full length fic and I'm not sure where exactly it's going to take me, but I hope you'll join me, Dean, and Cas for the ride.

_“Mom!” A choked scream desperately scraped at the bedroom door. The paint was peeling with heat and the voice’s fingernails were chipping. “Mom, please! Get out of there!”_

_Dean couldn’t hear anything coming from the room behind that horrible door. The hallway was darkening with thick, black smoke. ‘Demons,’ he thought, ‘Demons are coming for me.’_

_Suddenly, the darkness swallowed him. He bit down on fiery, bitter smog, and fell through the floor._

_The darkness was replaced with unforgiving red glares of light, followed by equally treacherous blue flashes. Shrieking and screaming surrounded him, and then he was gripped tight._

_“I’ve got you.”_

_Dean couldn’t take it anymore. He let himself fall down into unconsciousness, fingers lingering on his shoulder._

* * *

“Man, what a dick!” Dean sauntered out of the DMV, his mate Benny in tow. “That Crowley could give freaking Satan a run for his money.” Dean held out the pink slip of paper in front of him as if it were a dirty rag. Surely, his glare was enough to light it on fire.

_Yeah, no. If I could do any freaky Firestarter shit, I wouldn’t have been stuck working for the frickin king of queues._

Dean had finally been fired from his clerk position at the DMV after his ‘inappropriate and unprofessional outburst’ as his boss, a mister Fergus Crowley, put it. So what if he jumped through his little cubby hole window and roughed up a customer? The dickbag was hands-all-over some poor chick. Admittedly, the ginger looked like she was ready to smash the creep’s nards, so the hurt he’d laid on the guy was possibly an overreaction. It didn’t matter; either way, he had saved this chick’s decency and gotten rid of his shit job.

_Good riddance, jerkoff._

“Oh, brother, you needa get yourself all together,” Benny had this annoying habit of being sensible about everything. Poor guy had gotten fucked over by his first girlfriend; the vampire had sucked his wallet dry and left him scrounging for jobs at hellholes like the DMV. Dude probably learned a few things about rationality after all that noise.

“Benny, I’m sure I can find a job if I just believe in myself and try my best.”

“All that’s crap an’ you know it. You gotta keep focused; after all, you gotta girl to keep happy.” Benny’s grin showed off his impressive eye-teeth. That was another annoying habit: Benny’s smile didn’t just stop at his mouth; it crept all the way up his face and into his blue eyes. That prick was good looking and he knew it.

Dean’s reverie was rudely interrupted by the wailing of a siren rushing by the pair. Dean hated sirens. They reminded him of the fire back in his childhood. Nothing like bright red trucks and blaring horns to trigger a broken sweat and a sudden pulse in him.

The trance within a trance was interrupted by the sudden realization that not only was the horrible truck beating up his eardrums, but it was following a route he knew too well.

_Shit._

Dean ran. He sprinted as fast as his tobacco-wrought lungs and bow-legs could carry him, and the thunderous clomping behind him alerted Dean that Benny was not far behind. The acrid smell of burning… house stung his nose and eyes as he neared his home. Shit. It wasn’t really much of a home at this point.

For the umpteenth time in the past few moments, Dean had a horrible realisation: Lisa.

_No. Fuck. No. Shit. Lisa!_ Dean bolted through the crackling door, deaf to the warning shouts of the firemen on site. He darted up the now scalding stairs, dodging licks of flame that danced wildly about him.

He was finally up the stairs and at his bedroom door. Another goddamn door! Of course this one was locked, too. The brass doorknob burned his hands as he tried to shake it open, and more paint peeled at his hands as he tried to break the door down. It was no use; the smoke took him once again and forced him to curl down onto the floor and cough and retch. The floor burned beneath him, and Dean couldn’t quite tell if he was twenty-six or four, or if he really was dying this time.

As if responding to the blurred reality around him, a hand reached out and gripped him tight. Another wrapped around his waist and hoisted him over the shoulder of the man who was now saving him. Dean coughed and sputtered, “Lisa, please, my girlfriend. Please save her.” Anything Dean was going to say was cut off by a painful burst of hacking coughs.

“He’s saved!” Dean could register a voice calling out joyfully. Dean opened his eyes slightly. He was still draped over his saviour’s shoulders, so he craned his neck to see the face of this guy.

He was not prepared for pink, chapped lips and icy blue eyes.

“Jesus Christ.”

The man seemed just then to take notice of Dean’s current consciousness. He squinted slightly and cocked his head, “Castiel, actually.”


	2. Aftermath

“Thank you, Mr, Winchester, that will be all.” The coroner-mortician-whatever waved to the door in practised courtesy. What a fucking joke. Was it really necessary to identify a body that he had been at the scene of death of? Lisa, thankfully, had not died from the fire per se. She hadn’t died from immolation, but from the smoke. The fire brigade had been able to get that door down –Dean wondered if he should get himself one of those axes– and retrieve her body before she went up in flames.  Even in death, Lisa maintained a sort of girl-next-door kind of beauty. She was pallid and speckled with bits of smoke particles, and her hair was a mess, so unlike her, but she was beautiful. Dean thought he must be at the end of some sick cosmic joke.

Dean left the morgue in a hurry, the collar of his leather jacket turned up. It wasn’t cold, but Dean really didn’t feel like actually facing the world right now and a collar would have to do for a suit of armour.

 His blinders also did a great job of keeping his from seeing the man dart from behind him, glancing him as he passed. Dean tripped awkwardly, fell even more gracelessly, and shouted out a ‘Look where you’re going, asshole!’ Much to Dean’s surprise, the man stopped and rushed to help Dean up. The man had large, strong hands that wrapped around Dean’s forearm as he levered himself up. Dean finally looked up at his assailant-turned-aid, only to find those two obnoxiously blue eyes staring worriedly back at him.

 “Uh, sorry, man, I guess I shoulda got outta your way. Um, Cass...”

 “Castiel. And I really should apologise; I was in a hurry and I should have been more careful.”

 “Oh, no, it’s all fine, not a problem, Casst-Cas. Cas is okay, right?”

 “I don’t see why not.”

 “Um, obviously, I know you kinda saved my life yesterday, I was there so I know,” _What?_ “So I just wanna thank you for helping me not die.”

 _Dean what the hell._  

“You’re very welcome.” This guy seemed not to notice the complete failure of social competence that had spewed from Dean’s mouth, and instead smiled warmly. Funny, how could someone with such winter-blue eyes smile like that?

 Cas’ face turned sombre, and Dean missed the sun, “I should also offer my condolences about your girlfriend. I wasn’t the one to get her out, but I should have tried to help her when I had the chance. If it’s any consolation, I’m glad you made it out alive.”

 Dean felt a knot forming in his throat as the thought crossed him. What if Lisa could have been saved? If this bastard had just ignored Dean, had opened that fucking door…

 But Dean couldn’t get angry at Cas. The man seemed to genuinely glad that Dean was alive. Did he really care, or was that just firefighter sensitivity training talking? Something in Cas’ wellspring eyes told him that maybe Cas meant it. That just made it even worse, because Dean’s anger was quickly morphing into a more comfortable feeling: loathing. Not at Cas, God no. At himself. Why had he rushed in like that? Why had he wasted the fire team’s time by nearly dying like some sap? What if he had effectively killed Lisa?

 “Are you alright?”

 Dean snapped out of his head to see those freaking eyes gazing into his, “Yeah, yeah I’m fine, man. Just been a rough day, ‘sall.”

 “I saw on the news afterwards. You former employer said he had just let you go. He said he thought it was arson when he saw the live footage of your house. He thought you’d done it because of the work issue.”

 “What? No. I mean, yeah I was pissed, but I would never take out a fucking building over losing a crap job like that.” Dean didn’t know exactly why he was defending himself to Cas; he clearly didn’t suspect Dean of anything shady.

 “I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Winchester.”

 Dean tilted his head at the title, “Um, you can call me Dean if you want.”

 Cas smiled again, and that weird cup-of-cocoa warmth permeated the air around them, “Alright, Dean.”

 Dean was almost at the motel where he was staying, having taken up a lighter gait after his run in with Cas, and having turned his collar back down. He was ready for when a redheaded woman bounced out in front of him.

 “Dean Winchester!”

 Dean jumped back a little. Who was this? How did she know his name? Had he screwed her? Some cog in his head finally turned, and Dean realised this was the girl from the DMV: Nard smasher.

 “Dean, sorry I saw it on the news, I thought ‘Whoa I know that guy! He just beat up a creeper and _oh no his house is on fire!_ ’ and I just wanted to say how sorry I am and how thankful I am and Dean I hope you’re okay and It’s not weird that I know your name because it was on the news.” She must have breathed at some point, but Dean certainly hadn’t.

 “Oh, um, thanks, and you’re welcome.” Dean wasn’t nearly as good with gratitude as Cas was, “I just hope that guy didn’t scare you too bad.” _That was lame._

 “Oh, I’m sure I could have gotten him good, but hey, a little tag team never hurt anybody who didn’t deserve it. Besides, my girlfriend was there, and she’s a level 57 battle mage and a black belt so I was never in any real danger.”

So Dean had lost his job over absolutely nothing.

 “Anyway, thanks for that hero stunt. It looked pretty cool, seeing you Hulk out like that. I got to go, but yeah, it was good to meet you for reals.” She extended a hand, “Charlie Bradbury, tech support and on weekends, Queen of Moondor.”

 Dean smiled and shook the surprisingly strong hand. It wasn’t as big as Cas’, or as warm. _Weird thought._

 “Alright, see you around!” Dean hadn’t noticed that Charlie had written her number on his hand, but there it was.

 “Don’t get any funny ideas; I just thought you’d wanna come by out Moondor LARP this Saturday. You might need something to take your mind off of your worries. It’s worth a shot. You don’t need a costume or anything, just valour and courage.”

 Dean couldn’t help but crack a smile at that, “I’ll think about it. Now get home safe, you here?”

 With a grin and some weird hand gesture; Spockian? Vulcan, Charlie walked away.

 Dean knew he should be kind of devastated right now, but he felt a little bubbly after his past couple conversations.


	3. For Moondor

Dean was in way over his head. LARPing? Moondor? Hell, he’d barely even played Skyrim. The clearly ten-year-old man was tearing through a dollar store for something, anything to wear to this meet up. What the hell do nerds wear?

Eventually Dean settled on a plastic claymore and a recreation helmet that was just slightly big on his head. Whatever; that just meant he could show off his honey-coloured hair whilst carrying the thing around like a medieval biker helmet.

Dean arrived at the grounds of the congregation a little late; things were in full swing as he strode through the colourful entry arch. Tents of garish colour palettes rose proudly from the Frisbee field that was the convention area, and banners that were way too well made decorated their entrances. It didn’t take long for Dean to find Charlie’s tent; it was the biggest, and had a huge purple moon banner out front.

“Hey, Charlie I made it. Do you people have jobs or do you just sew—whoa.”

“Dean! If the tent’s a-rocking, don’t come knocking!”

Dean put up a hand to cover his eyes, but he still caught a glimpse of a very underdressed Charlie and an even less clothed girl sitting right between her legs. It was hot, yeah, but he kind of felt like he owed it to her not to ogle, having saved her from a perv and all.

“Lemme change, Gilda. Dismissed.” Charlie was already halfway into her chainmail by the time Gilda had left the tent with a flutter of the door flap.

Dean lifted his hand from his eyes in time to see Charlie don a tiara that looked like a few tax brackets out of Dean’s reach. He made his way over to the table that Charlie was standing by and glanced down at the military figurines sprawled out across the map of what was apparently Moondor or something. Charlie’s eyes were so focused as to be cross-eyed as she struggled with an archer pawn in her hand.

“Um, if you put your archers to the south of the artillery you’ll get a good bottle neck against those other guys.” Dean was by no means a tactician, but his time in boot camp wasn’t all for nothing.

“You mean here? Wait, Dean that’s genius!” Charlie embraced Dean and tore the tiara off her head, hanging it limply on Dean’s own, “I oughtta make you part of my queensguard.”

Dean couldn’t suppress the small smile that plastered itself upon his face. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Come on, Dean, let’s get to the battlefield!”

* * *

 

“…They may take out lives, but they will never take our freedom!” Dean hollered at the band of freaks and geeks that cheered around him. The faux army tore across the battle field, beanbags in hand as they whirled spells at the enemy. One guy even had a giant lance that he used to nimbly skewer his foes with.

“Was that the speech from Braveheart?” Charlie asked as she popped up behind him, axe in hand.

“It’s the only one I know!” Dean shouted over the ruckus, “And besides, it got the job done.” Dean was right; within minute, the orcs and ghouls around them were effectively dead, and the Queensguard had returned to her majesty’s side to cheer in celebration. Lance guy, whose name was something crazy like Garth or something, poked Dean in the rear with his tool and cackled in glee.

“That archery stunt? Milady, how’d you think of it?” Garth’s eyes bulged in awe as he posed his question.

“The credit goes to the man to my righ- left.” Charlie gestured to Dean.

“Um, I just thought it’d be a good idea, ‘sall.” Dean stammered. He wasn’t used to so many strangers mooning at him like he’d written freaking Art of War or something.

One such idoliser, a spunky kid named Kevin, marched right up to Dean and shook his hand. For such a small guy, his grip sure was strong.

* * *

 

 Of course, there was a banquet in celebration of Moondor’s spectacular victory. It was closer to a glorified barbeque than anything else, and the tent it was held in looked more like a circus bigtop than medieval fare. Nonetheless, Dean enjoyed pickings of ribs, burgers, and a cherry pie that tasted like heaven in a flaky crust. Kevin’s mother had supplied the pastry, and the boy was sure to check in on Dean and collect feedback.

“Was it good, sir knight?” Kevin asked with a whisper of apprehension.

Dean was too busy stuffing his face with the thing to actually reply, but he bobbed his head vigorously. Feeling a need to walk off the mountain of food he’d just consumed, Dean got up and walked with Kevin around the tent. The kid was chatty and goofy, but Dean appreciated the enthusiasm with which he spoke. The pair rounded a corner only to be consumed by a thick fog of smoke from the grill. Kevin coughed mildly, but Dean froze.

He was trapped inside four searing walls, his hands burning as he tried to claw his way out. Sour smog filled his lungs as he wretched and groaned in agony. On the floor beside him was a pale Lisa, her hair singed and her skin crackling. Her eyes burst open as she screamed for help, but Dean was too consumed by smoke to reach her. She was miles away down the flaming corridor. Dean was in Hell. He was-

“Dean! Please, snap out of it!” A cold solo cup of water came splashing over the man’s face and jerked him into reality. Kevin stood there, a worried and fearful look on his face and said solo cup in his hand.

“Sorry,” was all he could manage to sputter over the bile in his throat. Dean staggered off.

Well that was a shitty way to end the day.


	4. News Clippings

“Look, I really can’t afford to be paying for this,” Dean said with an exasperated sigh.

 “Well, Mr. Winchester, you have insurance, so buck up and shut up.”

 Dean was taken aback by the ease with which this therapist, _Gabriel? Yeah, Gabriel_ , had insulted his client.

 “Did I mention I’m unemployed? And that, oh yeah, my freaking _house just burned down_?” Dean was quickly losing his patience with the golden haired man that sat across from him, a cherry lollipop popping loudly out of his mouth.

 “Yeah, that sucks, but you came to me after your little incident, so now you’re stuck. In my professional opinion, you definitely need therapy. So, a few questions about yourself.”

 “Shoot.” _Dickwad._

 “How much have you been sleeping recently?”

 “Three, four hours.”

 “A night?”

 “A week.”

 “Have you had any long-term relationships?”

 “There’s my fiancée who, you know, just went up in smoke.”

 “How long have these intrusive thoughts happening. How often?”

 “Not long, I guess. I only had a couple or so.”

 “Are you on any medications?”

 “No.”

 “Do you take any?”

 “Yeah.”

 “And how much do you drink in a week?”

 “I don’t know. Maybe a few bottles of whiskey… give or take.”

 At that, Gabriel raised an eyebrow. He spent a moment fishing through a drawer and produced a small black business card.

 “I’ll be your trauma and grief counsellor, and this fine young woman will be your addiction counsellor. You’ll meet her in a week.”

 “Do I get a say in this?”

 “No. So buck up and-“

 “Fine.” Dean read the name on the card. _Meg Masters, MD._ “Her name is Masters? With a masters?” Dean gave a small huff of laughter.

 “At least your sense of humour is intact, barely. Well, Deano, that’ll be all for today.”

 “What, that's it? No diagnosis or nothing?”

 “You want one? Fine. You have PTSD, the self-esteem of a dead termite, and a narcissistic personality to rival a Roman emperor.” Gabriel smirked at his own amazing wit.

* * *

 

 That day, Sam arrived from California with his fiancée, Jessica. Dean tried not to feel a pang of resentment when he spotted them macking out in the arrivals corridor, and chose instead to clear his throat loudly and giggle the small sign with ‘Winchester/Moore’ scrawled on it.

 “Hi, Dean. It’s really good to see you. Sorry about Lisa. It must be tough right now.”

 Dean appreciated his brother’s sincerity. Any condolences he’d received, sans Cas’ had been formal at best and pathetic at worst.

 He opted for humour in his reply, “Well, except for living in a motel right now and having nothing left in my minibar, I’m alright,” He said with a shrug.

 Sam knew better, and readily went in for a hug. Sam gave the best hugs.

 “Say, what caused the fire, anyway?”

 Dean gave another, more weighty shrug. “The police said it was probably an electrical fire, but they can’t find a source.” He was clearly upset about the station’s incompetence, but played it off as another sick twist of the Lisa Braeden tragedy.

 “You know that if you ever need to just talk with someone, Jess and I are here,” Sam comforted with a referential arm around his fiancée’s waist.

 “Thanks, but between my asshat therapist and the mortician, I’ve had plenty of time to talk about it,” Dean replied with a roll of his eyes. How had he gotten into this? He wasn’t some basket case.

* * *

 

 The three piled into Dean’s impala and peeled out of the airport parking lot, Led Zeppelin blasting, and made way to Sam and Jess’ hotel.

 “You know, instead of whatever cheapo motel you’re staying in, you should get a room here,” Sam remarked, “It’s quality, Dean, and not that expensive.”

 Dean considered this. Yeah, money was tight what with his house going up in flames and his job lost, but it’d be nice to be near his little brother.

 “I just might,” Dean conceded.

Within thirty minutes, they had arrived at the hotel. It sure was ritzy, a little too done up for Dean’s taste, but it looked comfortable. He rose out of his baby and generously took Sam and Jess’ bags. They didn’t notice, of course, as they were too busy making puppy eyes at each other. Sam’s puppy eyes were a force of nature, but Jess was giving him a run for his money.

 “Alright, lovebirds, let’s get you settled into your room, and I’ll check myself in.”

 After Sam and Jess checked in, it was dean’s turn. He got a room a floor above his brother, and settled outside the hotel’s attached coffee shop with a fresh black brew and a newspaper. He found himself on page 8A; a small article about the fire had been nestled in with the crime reports. It was being reported as an arson. _Arson?_

 Dean quickly got out his phone, a cheap old Motorola that barely flipped open without breaking, and dialled the police station. A tired but pleasant sounding woman answered.

 “Lawrence police department, Nancy speaking. May I take your call?”

 “Yeah, this is Dean Winchester, the guy whose house burned down. I just saw in the paper that it’s being investigated as arson. Why didn’t anyone call me to tell me that?”

 “We’re very sorry, Mr. Winchester, but we are busy, and we meant to inform you later this week,” came the reply on his grainy reception.

 “Well do I need to make another statement? Why is it suddenly an arson case? They told me it was an electrical fire.”

 “When the officers made a second round of the house, they found the telephone line had been cut, likely in an effort to prevent an emergency call. There was also evidence of a power outlet being tampered with in the kitchen.”

 The information sent Dean reeling. Some creep had actually come into his house, fucked with his shit, and set the fucker on fire? “But nothing was missing! Who would do this?”

 “We don’t know yet, Mr. Winchester, but we are working to help you. You can expect a call later this week if we get any more evidence or tips. We’ll be sure to call this time,” Nancy said with a hint of apology to her voice.

 “Well, thanks, but shit,” Dean murmured into the receiver. He heard a click of Nancy hanging up, and closed his phone. In an instant, he was pummelling the wall behind him with his fist and cursing. _What the fuck?_

 “Dean, are you okay?” came from the pavement behind Dean. He whirled around to find Cas standing there, his hair a raven’s wing mess and a steaming coffee in his hand. The guy still had that trench coat on.

 “Um, yeah, um, sorry,” Dean stuttered lamely. How did this bastard always manage to find him when he was compromised? And how did he always manage to pop up without warning?

 “It’s good to see you, Dean, but I hope you’re okay. Your knuckles are bleeding,” Cas said neutrally. His face did bear some concern on it, though.

 “Yeah, I’m just pissed,” Dean handed Cas the paper and pointed to his article. Cas furrowed his brow as he read the mention of arson.

 “They suspect foul play?” Cas rasped out after taking a sip of his beverage.

 “Yeah, and they didn’t even bother telling me, so yeah.” _How many times have I said ‘yeah’ in the past minute?_

“Oh, Dean, I’m so sorry.” Cas really did sound sorry, but Dean hated to see him look so affected.

 “It’s fine, I mean, it’s not your house, right? Say where do you live?”

 “My building’s next to this one,” Cas said as he waved to a brick apartment complex that was plastered up against the hotel’s east façade.

 “That’s great Cas, because I’m gonna be staying here for a while.” _And he cares why? And I care to tell him why?_

 “That’s good,” Cas replied warmly. It was funny, the contrast between the man’s stern expressions and his comforting timbre. Not that Dean was laughing; he was too busy staring at the man’s pink lips. _Excuse you._

Dean coughed. He also felt extremely awkward after a time passed without either man saying anything.

 “So, uh, whatcha drinking?” _Pathetic._

 “Mocha with cinnamon.” _That seems… right._

 “Listen, do you uh, wanna,” Dean looked desperately for a prompt,” Get coffee sometime? I feel bad for spilling my shit on you all the time. I’d like to hear from you. You’re a fireman, right? That’s gotta be cool.”

Cas smiled brightly at the mention of his job, “It’s a pleasure to help people, so I truly love my work. Have you found a job yet?”

 It was weird, considering that they’d had only two interactions, that this guy knew so much about Dean’s life, “Um, no. I haven’t really been looking to be honest.”

 “Understandable. If you’re interested, I can help you look through job listings when we go for coffee.”

 “Um, yeah, sure. Wow, thanks for the offer.”

 “I’ll be seeing you, then. How’s tomorrow at noon?”

 “That works for me,” Dean replied happily, ignoring his desire to sleep in until two in lieu of some company, “I’ll meet you here if you want.”

 “Sounds peachy. Take care of those knuckles.”

 With that, Castiel turned and walked over to his building. Dean wasn’t sure why he felt so warm despite the chill to the day.


	5. Mochaccino

That night, they decided to have a get together at the Roadhouse. Some close family friends, Ellen, Jo, and Bobby, owned the place and were to date the only people who worked there. Ellen’s burgers were an eighth wonder of the world.

“So he dives like an Olympic swimmer, full tuxedo and all, into the pool!” Jess laughed out.

“Wow, someone’s pretty dedicated to his proposal,” Dean jibed as he took a drag of his cigarette.

“Well for a four carat ring, I wasn’t gonna let it slip into the pool trap,” Sam grumbled. He looked embarrassed, but there was levity in his words, “It was a rental tux, too.”

At that, the tabled howled in laughter. Ellen, having heard Sam’s remark, chuckled as she brought their food over. Squishing next to Dean, she prompted, “So how did you two meet? I never got the full story.”

“Well,” Jess began, “Sam and I were both at Stanford when he practically knocked me over getting to class. The mammoth was late for class, apparently, but I suspect he was trying to start a conversation through brute force.” The table burst out into giggles, “And it definitely worked!”

“And how about you, Dean? Holding yourself together?” Ellen’s expression went from light to motherly. She had practically raised the man and his brother, so the look was familiar. Of course, Dean couldn’t lie to that face.

“I gotta admit, it sucks. I have nightmares when I do sleep, and that’s a pretty small chunk of time to begin with. I also just learned that some wacko burned my frickin house down out of malice.”

The whole table’s eyes boggled out of their skulls, “What?” Sam breathed.

“Yeah, this lunatic cut the phone lines, snuck in, and messed with an outlet! I swear if they catch the freak, I’m gonna be the executioner myself!” Dean beat the table with his bandaged fist. The company looked more worried for him than the house at that point, “Sorry, guys, I shouldn’t be raining on you guys.”

With that, Dean bit down into his burger.

* * *

 

Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. Despite all the crap Dean was dealing with, seeing Cas was enough to brighten his mood considerably. He rushed from the elevator to the café with the giddiness of a schoolboy at eleven fifty-five.

Cas was there already, sipping on an iced concoction; the guy seemed like the type who liked to be a little early.

Retrieving his mocha with cinnamon, which he totally didn’t order because of Cas, Dean sauntered over to the table where the man sat, “So, how did the rest of your day treat you?”

“I had a fire down by the police station. A stir fry gone wrong. Luckily it was a small fire and no one was injured. The stove was unsalvageable which put the owner in a mood.” Cas shifted, “It makes me upset when people get worked up over a small loss like that. Some people,” Cas looked over at Dean with soft eyes, “Lose so much more. They’re often more grateful for whatever they could save than people who lose a small amount.”

Dean smiled at the compliment, but decided to change the subject to a lighter one, one that Dean found particularly interesting, “So tell me about yourself, Cas. I don’t even know your last name.”

Cas nodded in affirmation of the topic shift, “It’s Novak, actually. My mother emigrated from Russia in 1980 with a dream of finding work and promptly met my father. It was mistake, really, because the marriage took away any hopes of being a career woman. My father is a very traditionalist man, and relegated her to raising the family he wanted. It wasn’t a terribly long lived affair, however. She left him and took us five kids with her to Kansas. I was eight at the time.”

Dean raised his eyebrow, “Five kids? And one mom? That must have been tough for all of you.”

Cas shrugged, “We had each other, and we never forgot that. Recently, however, my eldest brothers, Michael and Lucifer, got into a dispute over their shared business and haven’t contacted each other since. My sister, Anna, sided with Michael and my brother Gabriel sided with Lucifer so they aren’t talking either.”

“Who did you side with?” Dean inquired.

“Wisely, I’m sure, I stayed out of it. The whole issue was that Lucifer was embezzling from the company, but to be fair, Michael was overworking and underpaying him under guise of family being more important than money. Obviously, money became very important to him when he didn’t have it. Lucifer has yet to pay him back. Both are too proud to settle it legally, as it would realise their dysfunction to have lawyers called in.” Cas seemed weary just recollecting the situation.

“That reminds me, why the name Lucifer? Seems kind of a bad omen.”

“My mother was a pious person, though not very well versed in the bible. Her family was from a small sect in Russia that considered Lucifer and the devil to be different entities,” Cas sighed, “By the time she realised her mistake, it was too late and she was too in love with the name.”

“Well I guess that makes some sense. Sorry to hear that your family’s messed up.” _Was that too short for a first coffee?_ “Sorry, I didn’t mean to insult you.” Dean looked at his cup and traced his finger along its rim.

“Don’t be sorry, it’s only true.” Cas accompanied that with a small smile.

The pair chatted about everything from the stock market to flower arrangements. Their coffees soon became seconds, then thirds, then desserts, a scone for Cas, pie for Dean. When they were stuffed, they walked. They soon arrived at the door of Cas’ building where they shuffled awkwardly.

“So, I guess I oughtta go back to my room,” Dean said lamely as he checked his watch. 3:30.

“It was a pleasure, Dean. I hope we can meet up again soon.” With that, Cas turned and entered the lobby of the building, trench coat flapping dramatically in the eddy that the swinging door caused. It was beautiful, though Dean.


	6. Hallelujah

Lisa’s funeral was the next Sunday. Grey clouds swelled above the gravesite as fog rolled through the bouquets of white lilies and roses. Dean wore a red rose in the breast pocket of his black suit. He hated wearing it, but Lisa loved the way it looked on him. Sam was next to him, and threw woeful glances Dean’s way every now and then. Jess stood next to Sam, her black dress billowing in the cold wind of the day.

Everyone was wearing black. Lisa hated black. It reminded her of funerals.

Dean wasn’t religious, but the priest’s words bit into him.

“Loving God, we thank you for the gift of life. Today we thank you for the life of Lisa Braeden and all that she was…”

_She was everything_

“We thank you for the memories of Lisa, which we can keep as a source of comfort and continuing thankfulness.”

Dean was crying. A few velveteen tears sank down his cheeks, then a few more, then a cascade of tears that sent shudders through Dean, even has he tried to stay stoic.

His face didn’t move.

* * *

 

Coffee had become a daily event with Cas. Today, of course, Dean had had to postpone the date until the service was over. Dean considered not showing up at all, but he really needed to see Cas. Cas wouldn’t judge him for crying, wouldn’t offer empty sympathy or condescending words.

Cas just accepted.

“Afternoon, Dean. It’s good to see you.” Cas’ words were full of caring, as if he knew this would be a tough meeting for Dean.

“Same for you, Cas.”

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their coffees and occasionally looking up at each other as if to say something.

Neither did.

Finally, Cas had emptied his cup. “Dean, come with me.”

Dean numbly complied. He rose up out of his chair and followed Cas down the block. They came to Cas’ complex, where Dean expected them to say their goodbyes until the next day. Instead, Cas opened the door and motioned for Dean to enter. Dean raised an eyebrow, but went in.

They entered the lift together, once more in silence, and tried not to listen to the muzak that piddled from the speakers in the contraption.

Once they were in Cas’ apartment, the man took off his trench coat and led Dean into a small room near the back of the residence. Inside were a few chairs, a piano, and a cello.

Cas silently walked over to the cello and picked it up. He sat himself down in a simple wooden chair and began to check the instrument’s tuning.

Dean stood in the doorway, unsure whether he was really supposed to be here.

Cas began to bow a few simple arpeggios. It was a tune Dean recognised, but could not place.

Then, Cas began to sing

_“I heard there was a secret chord, that David played and it pleased the Lord, but you doon’t really care for music, do you?”_

Cas’ voice was rough, but gentle. It sounded like the voice of someone who really meant what he was singing, like the words had been imagined and written down by the dark haired man himself.

_“Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah.”_

The last note hung in the air like an icicle. Cas’ voice was the colour of the ring around the moon when it snows.

In spite of himself, Dean began to mutter the next verse along with Cas in his own gravelly, unrehearsed tone. The cello sang its own harmony as Cas deftly managed the strings and bow.

“Your faith was strong but you needed proof, you saw her bathing on the roof. Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you.”

Dean was getting louder. So was Cas.

“Maybe I’ve been here before. I know this room and I’ve walked this floor. I used to live alone before I knew you. But I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch. And love is not a victory march; IT’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah!”

Dean was crying again. He pressed on.

“It’s not some cry that you hear at night, it’s not somebody who has seen the light–”

Dean sank to the floor. He sang on, however, until he and Cas had completed the song- all of it. Dean was hardly intelligible through his wails as Cas calmly concluded the last ‘Hallelujah’ with a small scale passage on the cello.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas said.

Dean looked up. Cas was staring at him. It wasn’t a stare of pity or annoyance, or even sympathy. It looked fully like gratitude.

“I don’t usually have someone to play along with,” Cas explained, “So thank you for being here.”

Dean sat up cross-legged on the hardwood floor. He couldn’t take his eyes away from Cas’. “You’re, um, welcome.”

Cas went back to his instrument. He began playing an orchestral piece that Dean honestly wouldn’t be able to name if his life depended on it.

“This is ‘Die Neugierige’ by Schubert. It usually comes with lyrics, but I find the piece speaks for itself without words.” Cas played on.

Dean sat and listened. The piece sounded happy, he guessed, but with wistful tones puncturing it.

Cas played a few more pieces. Some, like Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria’ came with Cas singing reverently and deeply. Others, like Vivaldi’s ‘Winter’ were instrumental only. Cas still hummed harmonies every now and then. He preceded each piece with its name and composer. Dean sat baffled by the man’s voice, fingers trailing along the neck of his cello, his eyes that spilled emotion with each piece. He seemed to prefer slow, mournful pieces that picked up into hopeful crescendos and sweeps of the cello. Cas’ eyes shone with feeling through each one hitting each emotion on the head.

It had been three hours. Cas had played continuously, shifting over to the piano near the end. Dean hadn’t moved from his spot on the floor once, enraptured by his friend’s grace and skill. It was then, Dean decided, that as truly was his friend.


	7. Welcome

“So, how’s your sobriety been going?” Meg peered over her dossier with an expectant look.

“Swimmingly,” Dean shot back. That wasn’t exactly true; he’d been completely unable to sleep without his daily nightcap or six. Dropping the whiskey-Nyquil slurry he’d been used to was Hell, but not nearly as bad as losing his Ambien and Zopiclon. He was used to popping those babies like candy.

Meg gave Dean an incredulous look. It was more of a sneer, “Dean, the only way I can help you is if you’re honest with me. Now tell me, have you had a drink since we last met?”

“No,” Dean said truthfully. He accompanied his response with a victorious smirk, “I’ve been a good boy and stayed away from the liquor. Say, do they make patches for alcohol?”

“Sorry, sweetie, but you’re gonna have to white knuckle this one. Or, if your pride isn’t too delicate, you can try going to AA meetings,” Meg passed Dean a slip of paper with meeting listings, “I especially recommend this little number,” She circled a meeting for Sundays at seven o’ clock.

“No can do, missy. That’s personal time for me.” Dean reserved that time slot for dinner with Sam and Jess.

“You’ll never call me ‘missy’ again, capice? And at least try it. There are a lot of guys like you there.”

“What, homeless?”

“You’re not exactly homeless when you’re living in a ritzy hotel. Didn’t you ever watch The Suite Life? And no, I meant queer guys.”

Dean scoffed, “You’ll never call me ‘queer’ again, _capice?_ ”

“Noted. So you’ll go?”

Dean glared down at the paper, pink highlighted circle and all, “Fine.”

* * *

 

Dean let Sam and Jess know that he’d be missing dinner, right before he had to leave for his meeting.

“Why? Got a hot date or something?” Sam chuckled.

“No, Samantha, not everything’s a chick flick. I’m gonna go to an AA meeting.”

“Dean, that’s great!” Jess chimed in, “You know, my father’s in AA. I can give you his number if you ever feel the need to call him.”

“I think I’ll manage without dragging your ‘pa into this,” Dean replied sarcastically, though not venomously.

“Alright, big strong man, just let me know if you change your mind.”

“I will, Jess, and thanks for the offer.”

Dean got up from the comfy chair in his brother’s suite. It was nearly seven at the moment, and the commute was probably going to be at least a fifteen minute ordeal.

Dean sped out of the hotel garage in his impala only to break suddenly when he saw a man in a trench coat with his thumb sticking out.

“Need a ride, Cas?” Dean called out the window, meeting entirely forgotten.

“Um, yes, actually. My car broke down and I have an appointment at Lawrence Memorial Hospital.”

“Get outta here, I’m on my way there, too,” Dean chirped.

“Then may I ask for a ride?”

“Of course, Cas.”

Dean unlocked his passenger door for Cas, who bundled in and took a deep breath.

“It smells nice in this car. Is it new?”

Dean glowed at the compliment. His life may not be in order, but he’d be damned if he didn’t take good care of his baby, “Just got her shampooed.”

With that, the pair sped down the streets of Lawrence, running stop signs like they didn’t apply to the duo, which as noted.

They arrived at the hospital only five minutes late, and hurried into the building. They turned down one corridor then another, then a third.

“Um, Cas, are you following me?” Dean asked.

“No, I’m on my way to the Live and Let Live Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.”

_Oh. Duh._

“Wow, I’m also going that way. I didn’t know you were an alcoholic!” Dean exclaimed. He promptly blushed at his obvious faux pas, looking around to see that they were alone, “I mean, yeah, I didn’t know.”

Cas, seeing Dean’s embarrassment, smiled, “I had assumed you were going to the same place.”

“I am, uh, it’s my first meeting. I’m kinda new to the whole ‘anonymous’ thing.”

“Don’t feel bad, Dean. You were just excited to know somebody in the rooms.” Cas replied warmly.

They finally bustled into the meeting room, now ten minutes late due to their conversation, and found seats. The seats were arranged in three concentric semi-circles around a central desk where a familiar looking woman was seated. Dean wanted to sit in the back, but wanted to sit with Cas more, so he warily followed him to a pair of plastic chairs in the front-most row.

“That’s this month’s chairperson, Gilda,” Cas whispered to Dean in an entirely too alluring rumble.

“Oh, I saw her naked.”

“Congratulations, I suppose.”

Once the man who had been sharing was done, the room went quiet. Dean fidgeted in his seat. Cas put a reassuring hand on Dean’s knee, “There’s an occasional lapse in the flow of the meeting,” he murmured. Gilda scanned the room, “Okay, people, anyone want to share before I start picking volunteers? I do know your names!” She said with a wink.

“Castiel, alcoholic. I’ll share, if you’d like,” Castiel piped up, “what’s the topic? I’m sorry for being late.”

Gilda just smiled, “Car trouble again? You know it’s fine. The topic’s acceptance.”

“Well,” Cas began, “you all know that I began drinking when I was fourteen, in order to cope with my mother’s passing,” Dean raised an eyebrow. _I didn’t know that._

Cas continued, “It was a fairly quick progression from binging occasionally when I was sad to binging just to feel good. I became reclusive, a trait that I’m still trying to overcome, and felt that if only the world would return to me what it took, I wouldn’t be forced to drink. It was petty at best. When my first long-term partner, Balthazar, passed when I was twenty, I only became more dependent on alcohol. The fact that he’d died of cirrhosis of the liver didn’t seem to deter me from my own drinking. For me, it was only another reason to drink myself to death; my world had nothing worth living for anyway. How poetic would it be if I shared his fate, I thought in my deluded mind. I persisted in that pattern for two more years.

“Before I knew it, I really was in danger of dying. My brother, a psychologist, recommended me a rehab centre where I stayed for ninety days. After that, I began to see my addictions therapist. That was five years ago. I’m celebrating my anniversary tonight, in fact.” Some clapping and cheering interrupted him, “I suppose it was acceptance of my condition that first produced a psychic shift in me. Once I had admitted I was dependent, I could look into exactly why. It didn’t take long to realise that I wasn’t coping with death per se, but with being alone. I find it highly ironic that in finding comfort in a bottle, I made sure I was alone. I find that recovery is so much more rewarding than my past life, simply waiting to die. I have friends now,” Cas glanced at Dean, “And I can accept that I’m only alone if I choose to be.”

With that, Cas placed his hands in his lap, and fell silent. A few congratulatory calls came from around from the room, including a shout of, “Keep coming back!”

Dean was practically vibrating with admiration for the man next to him. He was so inspired that he didn’t realise his hand shoot up.

“Go ahead,” Gilda encouraged.

“Oh, um, I’m Dean, I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, Dean,” the room said in unison, along with a few comments of ‘welcome’.

“So, I’m new to this so I might just be rambling, but I also started drinking when I was fourteen. I was under a lot of pressure from my dad to just grow up already and take over the family business. I guess I just figured I'd drink to relieve the pressure. I mean, he was a big drinker, so I was living up to him in a way,” A few people nodded in assent at the comment, “From there I just got used to the habit of waking up, taking a few slugs, coming home from school, taking a few more, and then just drinking through the afternoon and evening. I didn’t even mean to do it, it just kinda happened. When my dad finally died when I was eighteen, I was so far gone I showed up drunk to his funeral.” At the slip, Dean turned silent for a second, “Sorry, I just lost my fiancée, so the whole death topic’s kinda a sore one. Not that I minded your sharing, Cas,” Dean faced the man, who listened patiently, “Anyway, yeah, I just started this recovery thing, but I just have to accept it, so… I guess I’ll shut up now.” A few amused chuckles floated over the general ‘thanks Dean, keep coming back’.

The meeting passed quickly after that. Mostly, people talked about their own experiences with denying and accepting their alcoholism. At eight sharp, the meeting closed, and everyone began to chat amongst themselves.

“Thank you for sharing, Dean.” Came from beside him.

“Oh, yeah, thanks Cas. I’m glad I came.  Do you, uh, need a ride back?” _Of course he does, idiot._

“That would be greatly appreciated,” Cas said far more kindly than Dean’s inner voice, “Are you ready to leave now or would you like to stay and chat with people?”

“Um, I think I’ll pass on the social club. Let’s go.” Dean turned towards the door, not missing the affectionate chuckle from Cas.

“On second thought, do you wanna go get coffee or something?” _Coffee? At eight o’ frickin clock? Good one, Dean._

Cas simply grinned, “I’d love to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a point I'd like to make:
> 
> When Dean says not to call him queer, he only means that he doesn't think the word suits him. He's not repressed or inwardly homophobic or anything. I just thought it'd be more in character.


	8. Pornographic Films

Dean began to spend more and more time at Cas’ place. Considering his one-room suite was causing Dean borderline cabin fever, the transition was welcome. He was currently in said abode, sipping colas and watching thrillers with Cas on the sofa. The sofa was of black leather which matched the rest of the furniture in the apartment. The placement of the furniture was sparse, and the arrangement left a large gap in the floor space of the studio. All in all, the place looked like the setting of some porno.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, do you live with anyone? There’s always crap in your sink that I don’t remember putting there.”

“I live with my brother. He’s the actual owner of the property. He has a job as a psychologist, so he works strange hours. If you were to spend an evening here, you’d be sure to see him. He’s a baker on the side. The second refrigerator holds his finished products. Feel free to take a look if you’d like.”

Dean got up to inspect the fridge in question. Lo and behold, _pies._ There were cherry, apple, rhubarb, and chocolate confections lining the entirety of the fridge. Tucked away in the upper right-hand corner was a half-eaten tiramisu. Dean couldn’t resist sliding his finger over the chocolate ganache of one silk pie and popping it into his mouth. The sound that escaped his mouth was usually reserved for the bedroom, but Dean was a little too overwhelmed by flavour to care.

He returned to Cas, who sat on his sofa with his legs crossed elegantly and unassuming of Dean’s treachery.

“They look great,” Dean fumbled.

“I’m glad you think so. Gabe would be more than glad, I’m sure,” Cas responded, his eyes glued to the television screen as a blonde was savagely ripped apart by some hellish contraption. The two were on a Saw series bender; currently at the sixth instalment. Castiel loved horror. There was something about that fact that was at the same time disconcerting and endearing to Dean. _So long as he doesn’t axe me in my sleep, it’s cool._

Dean didn’t stop to consider that that would most likely require Dean sleeping at Cas’ apartment.

Something wiggled around in Dean’s thoughts, begging him to recall what Cas had just said, “Wait. Gabe? As in _Gabriel?_ Dude, I think your brother is my asshat therapist.” Dean felt somehow betrayed.

“I’d thought as much. The way you’ve described your counsellor fits Gabriel perfectly.”

Dean scoffed, “And you didn’t think I’d like to know that little fact?” he asked incredulously.

Cas shifted in his seat, “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable by violating patient-doctor confidentiality.” Dean shot him a look, “I didn’t want you to think differently of me because of your relationship with my brother.”

At that, Dean’s expression softened, “Aw, Cas, buddy, nothing would make me look at you differently. You could tell me your brother was actually Satan and I’d still think you were perfect.” Dean snapped his mouth shut with surprising speed at what he’d just said, “You’re not a bad guy, is what I mean.”

Cas, however, seemed to be glowing. “Thank you, Dean. You’re not a bad guy either.”

Dean coughed and looked around the room. “I guess this explains your setting.”

Cas cocked his head in confusion, “What do you mean?”

“Well, you know, the leather couch, the shag carpet, the _Casa Erotica_ poster in the bathroom. Those are a questionable cocktail of details.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Cas said as he looked around the room himself, then at his shoes, “I’ve never watched a pornographic film.”

“Really?” Dean gaped at him, “And you’re what, like, twenty-eight?”

“I just never felt the need to do so,” Cas defended, “Can we talk about something else?”

Dean relented, but could help with one last question, “Cas, are you a virgin?”

“No,” as said emphatically, if a tad annoyed, “Balthazar and I had sex quite often.”

A surge of jealousy went through Dean before he gathered himself, “Oh. Alright, dude! Way to go!” His voice wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic as his words. He went in for a high-five, but Cas just stared inquisitively at him.

“Er… thank you, I suppose,” Cas said slowly, as if Dean was some sort of sex-crazed lunatic.

“Um, I better go. Wouldn’t want to risk an encounter with the therapist from Hell. See you tomorrow?” Dean asked hopefully.

“Of course,” Cas replied with a smile.

“’Kay, see ya. And Cas?” The man in question unstuck his eyes from the television to gaze at Dean,” Sorry I made you uncomfortable. You didn’t want to do that to me, so it was unfair of me to get all in your business.”

“Thank you, Dean. Maybe once we have more time in our relationship, I’ll get the stick out of my ass and stop being so embarrassed by the topic of sex.”

In spite of himself, Dean laughed out loud. It was the first time he’d heard Cas swear. The sound of such a word felt kind of good, coming from the man.

“Alright, tiger, g’night.” With that, Dean slipped out the door.

* * *

 

Dean couldn’t sleep.

He tossed, he turned, he fluffed his pillow, he threw his cover off of himself only to duck under them again, he tossed some more, then gave up entirely.

_Fuck it._

Dean was wearing an old grey t-shirt and some plaid boxers. Considering how stiflingly hot the night was, he was entirely overdressed. With that, he pulled his shirt off over his head and flopped back down onto his bed.

_Still too hot._

With a swift motion, he slid his boxers off and discarded them at the foot of the bed where his shirt now lay. He was completely naked now, and still somehow far too hot. Dean didn’t do heat. The only kind of warmth he even got near was skin on skin body heat. The rough, passionate roll of sweat and the blindingly hot embrace of lips around his cock, a wet tongue fervently lapping up and down his length; that was bliss.

Dean began to trace a hand down his body; maybe he could distract himself. He brought another hand over his chest, down to his belly which was slick with sweat, and then suddenly to grip his twitching member. He gave it a few experimental pumps and was pleased with the sensation. He stuck two fingers in his mouth and then drew them over his cock head, precome already beading at the slit. With his left hand, he massaged the length of his cock slowly. With his right, he rubbed at his head. Waves of pleasure coursed through him as he built up a rhythm, slow for four pumps, quicker for the next four, then rapid for the next volley. His whole shaft was glistening with precome as he brought himself closer and closer.

Suddenly, he caught a flash of blue. Soft pink lips were wrapped around the head of his cock, then slowly, painfully slowly, they graced down the length of Dean’s member. A finger, whose, Dean couldn’t tell in his state, drew close to his entrance, then plunged inside. Soft cries escaped from dean’s mouth as he bit his lip to keep quiet. The finger was joined by another, the pair working in and out of Dean frantically but steadily. Another hard pump, and Dean came with a burst of ecstasy, spilling ropes of semen over his stomach and chest. One spurt reached his chin, but Dean didn’t care.

He lay there, unable to move in the blue glow of his climax. He turned his head a fraction to see that morning light was filtering through the curtains of his now lightening room. Dean stayed put, lounging naked and sweating and covered in his come.

Eventually he removed his fingers from himself. He made for the shower, turning it to a soothing warm temperature, and crept in. As he lathered himself he thought back to the delirium he experienced as he had stoked himself so fully.

_Blue eyes. Pin lips. Tousled black hair. Cas. Cas? Cas! Shit. Fuck!_

Dean opened his eyes and glared at his cock with a look of betrayal.

“Fuck,” he breathed. It had meant to come out as an angry shout, but he was too spent to be loud. He’d just jerked off to Cas. His _friend._ His incredibly stupidly weird, quiet, doesn’t-watch-porn friend. His ridiculously attractive and adorable friend.

“Fuck,” Dean reiterated.


	9. Suspicion

“You’re quiet, Dean,” Cas observed.

“So are you,” Dean replied too quickly.

The two were having their coffees the next day. Where there was the usual flow of conversation that generally could not be ceased, there was awkward silence. Granted, dean hadn’t gotten any sleep the night before, but that certainly wasn’t what was keeping him from speaking. Maybe the incessant flashbacks to what had happened in his bed last night were a tiny bit to blame.

“So spill, Cas. What’s got your tongue?” _Tongue. Shut up._

Cas hesitated, a look of distress on his face. Finally, he opened his mouth, “I, er, watched a, uh, pornographic film.” Dean crossed his legs under the table.

“Oh. Um, good, man. So, uh, how was it?” _Is this happening? Am I dead? Is this Heaven? Hell?_ Dean was clearly conflicted by this news and its excruciating serendipity to his own wee hours.

“It was odd, to say the least. The two actors were clearly very close in age, but the top insisted on being called ‘daddy’. The bottom was far too loud and the cinematographer’s shadow kept appearing in the frame. It felt forced, if not awkward to watch.”

“Oh, uh, that’s too bad. What was it called?” Dean asked, not at all intending to check out this porno that his friend had been watching only hours ago.

“It was, ‘Hunk Firefighter Takes Eager Green-Eyed Twink’ if I remember correctly.

Dean gulped involuntarily.

“Firefighter, huh? You, uh, watched a porno about your job?” Dean tried to inquire with a steady voice.

“I didn’t know what else to search for. I typed in ‘firefighter’ in the site browser and clicked the first option.”

“Huh.” Dean’s voice was simply not cooperating with him. An alarm beeped. Dean thanked his lucky stars, “Oh, uh, I gotta get going; I have an appointment with Gabriel in half an hour.”

Cas still looked lost, as if the whole situation was both absurd an overwhelming. Which it totally was for at least half of the party involved, “Okay, Dean. Have a good session.

Dean snorted, “Is any session with Gabe a good one?”

* * *

 

“So how’s life treating you, Deano?” Gabriel greeted through a candy bar.

“It’s been fine. I–”

“Stop. Dean, we’ve talked about this. Fine is a loaded word. It stands for?”

Dean rolled his eyes, but took the prompt, “Fucked up, Irrational, Neurotic, and Emotional,” he grumbled.

“Now that we’re being honest, wanna tell me what’s got your knickers in a knot?” Gabriel smirked at his cleverness.

“There’s nothing going on! I promise. I’m just living my life and all that jazz,” Dean replied too quickly.

“Dean, if you’re not going to let me in, I’ll be forced to do inner child therapy with you. Do you like colouring?” Gabriel was already fetching paper from his desk when Dean gave his emphatic dissent.

“Fine, dammit! I’m trying to be friends with this guy but my frickin head’s messing with me and I think I’m falling for him and I can’t get him out of my mind and I’m gonna fuck this up and he’ll realise I’m not worth the trouble of talking to and he’ll leave me like everyone else does! There, happy?” Dean crossed his arms over his chest like they were a shield against Gabriel’s judgment. He stared at his shoelaces.

“I didn’t know you could be such a baby. Well, I did know, but this really tops it. Dean, you’re selfish and self-centred. You think every relationship’s about you and how you feel and what you want. You’re afraid that you won’t get what you want, so you’re pretending the whole situation’s not up to you to decide. You need to actually think about this and stop making knee-jerk reactions to your emotions. Now tell me, what do you want?”

Dean shifted in his seat, but said nothing.

“Do you want sex?”

“Jesus, Gabe, yeah I want sex. But that’s not the point.”

“So there’s more that you want. You want a relationship with this man.”

“Yeah, alright? I want to be around this clown every hour of the day. I want to wake up to him and fall asleep knowing he’ll be there next to me. But I can’t have that.”

Gabriel’s expression softened, “Because you’re still mourning Lisa. Dean, you’re allowed to pursue your own happiness. Not many people get to feel this way about another person. Especially not two different people. Love isn’t something you have to run from.”

“Whoa, whoa. When did I say I loved Cas?”

Gabe raised an eyebrow, but said nothing about the slip, “Don’t you?”

Dean stopped and thought for a moment. Sure, he liked the guy, but love? That was a heavy thing, especially since he’d only known Cas for a short while. Two months? Yeah, two months. You can’t fall in love in that short a time, right?

_Then what do you feel?_

“I don’t know, okay? I just don’t know,” Dean finally admitted.

“Well luckily for you, Deano, I do know. Listen. You love this guy, or at least you’re a hair’s breadth away from it. What do healthy people do when they love someone? They ask them out. Hell, most people are already going pretty steady by the time the ‘L’ word pops into their heads but you’re a special case. Just grow a pair and tell him how you’re feeling. What could you lose?”

“Yes!”

“You know he wouldn’t do that to you. Stop making excuses and _let yourself live._ ”

“Well what am I supposed to do? Just walk up to the guy and say ‘hey, this came out of nowhere, but I’m totally in love with you and we should definitely hook up and spend our lives together forever and eat apple pie with our two-point-five kids’, like that’ll work?”

“I don’t see why not. Just maybe leave out the kids part. Now go out there and kick some ass. See you next week.”

Dean got up with a sigh, but agreed that it wasn’t fair to hold Cas at an arm’s length. He had to man up.

“And Dean?”

Dean looked back as he was about to leave the office, “Yeah?”

Gabriel gave him a knowing grin and wiggled his eyebrow, “You treat my brother well, got it? I’d hate to have to kill one of my favourite clients.”

Dean’s eyes bugged slightly, and he felt a blush creep onto his cheeks, but he didn’t dignify his therapist’s comment with a response. Instead, he just left.

* * *

 

Dean was on his way to Cas’ place to confess his undying love or whatever, but fist, he needed caffeine. A bottle or three of scotch would’ve been better, but he wasn’t going to make the mistake of embarrassing himself by drunkenly coming onto Cas. Not with two months of sobriety and his personal pride on the line. He was next in line at the counter when his phone rang. Grumbling under his breath about losing his place in line, Dean went outside and answered the phone.

“Dean Winchester speaking.”

“Hello, Mr. Winchester. This is Nancy speaking. Can you come by the station? We have some questions for you.”

Dean’s heart quickened. He wasn’t sure what this was about, but it couldn’t be good. What part of this case had been so far?

“Sure, I’m on my way.”

When Dean finally got to the station, he was greeted by the sheriff.

“Sheriff Victor Hendriksen,” he said, “We have some new evidence concerning the Lisa Braeden case. I’d just like to go over some information with you, see if we can put some pieces together. Why don’t you follow me?”

Victor led Dean down corridor after corridor, until the pair reached an interrogation room.

“Sorry to use this place; I promise you’re not in any kind of trouble. We’re just pretty cluttered in my office. Now, I understand you know a Bobby singer?”

Dean cocked an eyebrow, “Yeah, the guy practically raised me. What about him?”

Bobby had indeed raised Dean and his brother after their father died. He along with his wife at the time, Ellen, had been like bona fide parents to Dean. Ellen was still in town, but after she and Bobby divorced, he had moved to Sioux Falls in South Dakota to pursue his dream of being an auto mechanic.

“Mr. Singer’s house burned down yesterday. It was clear that the fire was no accident; there were discarded gasoline tanks found in a landfill a mile from the property, and the fire was too big too fast to have had one source. Mr. Singer is alive, but in critical condition for sustained burns. Now, Mr. Winchester, why is it that you’ve now had three fires linked to yourself? Do you have any enemies that might have a reason to hurt you or your relatives? Obviously, you’re not a suspect; you weren’t anywhere near Sioux Falls when the incident occurred, but things are beginning to look pretty bad for your safety.”

Dean pondered the question for a long minute, but came up blank, “I don’t know what to tell you, sheriff. I’m not the most lovable guy on the planet, but I don’t know anyone who’d try to burn my house down, or my family’s houses for that matter. Besides, if you’re saying that all three fires, including the one when I was four, are connected, that’s a pretty long time for someone to be out to get me.”

“Fair enough, how about this?” Victor showed Dean a sketch of a man, “The only name we’ve got is Azazel. He was reported to have been in Sioux Falls a day before the fire, and his description matches one that we collected after your fiancée’s passing. Unfortunately, he’s completely dropped off the grid. We’re looking for him, of course, but he’s slippery.”

Dean took a good look at the picture, but he couldn’t find any memory of a man named Azazel, or of any role he might have played in Dean’s life.

“I’m sorry, sheriff, but I don’t know this guy.”

“We’ll keep looking, Mr. Winchester. Now that the case has crossed state borders, people will start noticing. We’re expecting help from the Sioux Falls sheriff, Jody Mills. If anyone can catch this bastard, it’s her.” Victor nodded his head with determination.

Dean got up and shook hands with Victor, “Well, I sure hope so,” He said with a little less resolution.

“We’ll call you when we have more information. In the meantime, keep your eyes peeled. You aren’t in any immediate danger, but you never know where a clue will turn up. Stay safe, Winchester.”

“Will do, sheriff.”


	10. Cocoa

Over the span of his AA career, Dean had moved from going to one meeting a week with Cas to making a meeting every day. He was quickly approaching three months of sobriety, which thrilled if not surprised Ellen and Jo. He’d snagged a job bussing tables at the Roadhouse. It was boring work and the pay wasn’t great, even with Ellen’s ‘Friends and Family’ salary stipend, but at least he had Jo to chat with during shifts, and Cas had become a regular guest at the place, ordering two humongous cheeseburgers  each time he came by. The pain of Lisa’s death was still there in Dean’s chest, and he still flinched when the flames of the grill at the Roadhouse rose higher than normal, but with Cas’ support and his busy schedule to keep him occupied, he wasn’t feeling as lost or trapped as he once had. He relayed as much to Gabriel, who was pleased with Dean’s progress, but there was one little splinter that nagged at Dean when he couldn’t find something to distract him: Cas.

He’d finally admitted to himself that he was head over heels in love with the quiet man, but he still couldn’t bring himself to make a move. What if Cas didn’t feel the same way? The guy didn’t exactly wear his heart on his sleeve, but still, he’d know if Cas was interested, right?

“So basically, I’m stuck being friends with a guy who I’d really like to see making breakfast in the morning. I know what I gotta do, but I’m too chicken shit to do it. Can you gimme that stress ball?”

Meg handed over a colourful foam ball and folded her hands over her lap. Dean mangled the thing as he waited for her response.

“Dean, if you really think he’s not interested, you’d have lost interest a while ago. Deep down, you still believe that there’s a chance with this man. Harness that hope and just take a leap of faith. You know as well as I do that you can only grow from this experience.”

“Yeah, I know that, but my brain just freezes up when I try to broach the subject. I’m supposed to be drunk when I talk about things like this.” Dean brought his hand to his temple and rubbed it. He’d had a headache from worrying over this crap for the past week.

“Welcome to reality, Dean. We all have to step up and face the music. You should feel lucky that your little dilemma can only turn out as a positive. He’ll reciprocate, I promise.”

Meg was awfully sure of herself for some reason. _What’s up?_

“What, did Cas tell you himself?”

“No, but I have it on good authority that he’s not as much of a cold fish as you seem to believe. Dean, just _try._ I’m getting bored of hearing this noise. I want to hear about your awesome first date and from which country you’re going to adopt your African gay baby.”

Dean scrunched his face up in a grimace, “Who says I’m gonna want a baby?”

“Come on, Dean, you’re totally the dad type. I can just picture it now: You and Cas walking through the park with a cute little bundle of joy on your shoulders. Do you wanna be ‘Daddy’ or ‘Papa’?” Meg was enjoying this far too much.

“Shut up.”

“Don’t talk to your therapist like that,” there was no malice in Meg’s voice; however, “I’ll see you in a week. Now do something about your hard-on for this guy or so help me I’ll do something about it myself.”

Dean just shook his head and left, Meg still cackling to herself.

* * *

 

The night was chilly, but the cocoa was warm. Dean and Cas were relaxing in Cas’ apartment, enjoying terrible thrillers and popping marshmallows. The two were squeezed together under a garish quilt on the leather sofa. As far as Dean was concerned, this was heaven. Gabe’s cocoa powder was some European import, and Cas had snuck a pie out of the pastry fridge and heated it up. It was a pecan pie, which made Dean salivate as he took the first bite, and groan as he took the second.

The pastry didn’t last long.

The atmosphere was cosy and relaxed, but Cas seemed to be on edge. Finally, Dean placed a hand on Cas’ bouncing knee and prompted him, “Alright, buddy, what’s up?”

“Dean, I have something to tell you that I probably should have said long ago. Now I hope you understand that I wasn’t meaning to hide this, I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Dean froze. What was happening? His mind was already rushing to the only possible conclusion: Cas was about to confess his undying love for Dean.

“I was your neighbour for four years.”

Dean’s head jerked to face Cas. _What?_

“I lived across the street from your family during the time you were in that house. We didn’t interact; I never really played with the children outside my own family, but I knew who you were from the moment I learned your name. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but it’s not a topic that comes up that often.”

Dean was still processing this information when Cas poke up again, “There’s something else.”

Dean was still dumbstruck. He just nodded his head slowly to let Cas know he was listening.

“You remember the fire that took your home when you were four. I don’t know how much you recall of the actual events, but you clearly survived.”

Dean continued to nod.

“Well, Dean, what you don’t know is that I was the one who saved you. I saw your brother and father being carried out, but you were nowhere to be found. I don’t know what came over me, but I ran in just as you fell through the ground floor ceiling. You weren’t moving, so I carried you out.”

Cas stopped speaking and looked at Dean with a troubled expression. Dean stared back, his mouth agape.

“But Cas, you were like, what, eight years old? How did you get in there?”

Cas looked relieved that Dean was simply shocked, not upset that Cas had kept the truth from the other man, “I went in unexpectedly; the firemen didn’t know what was happening until I was already inside. Dean, I just want to say that that choice is the best decision I’ve made in my life. I’m glad you’re here with me today.” Cas looked sincere, even tearing up in the crinkled corners of his blue eyes. Dean couldn’t help but stare into them with a tugging ache in his heart.

_He’s glad I’m with him._

Dean was, in the understatement of the century, glad to be with Cas as well.


End file.
